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THE    OLD-FASHIONED    LOOM 


THE   LOOM  OF  LIFE 


COTTON  NOE 


RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE    GORHAM    PRESS 
BOSTON 


Copyright  1912  by  Cotton  Noe 
All  Rights  Reserved 


The  Oorham  Press,  Boston,   U.  S.  A. 


To 
Mother,  Wife  and  Sister 


M191SS0 


CONTENTS 

Proem 7 

A  Skein  of  Silver 

The  Old-Fashioned  Loom 11 

The  Old  Old  Clock 13 

The  Old  Spinning  Wheel 14 

The  Old  Water  Mill 16 

Waterloo 18 

In  the  Happy  Long  Ago 20 

The  Old  Drinking  Gourd 21 

A    Spool   of   Silk 

Solitude 25 

Love's  Triumph 26 

My  Guiding  Star 27 

Rhymes  and  Roses 28 

There's  Nothing  Dark  About  Her  But  Her 

Hair 29 

Blind  Tom 30 

A  Sonnet  of  the  Season 31 

Euterpe 32 

Scarlet  Days 33 

Her  Eyes  Are  Brown 34 

The  Naturalist 35 

Dedication 36 

Nearing  the  Meridian 37 

Our  Pilgrimage 38 


Ante  Nuptial 39 

Dr.  Miles  Saunders 40 

A  Soliloquy 41 

Gold  and  Gossamer 

To  the  Mocking  Bird 45 

A  Rondel 46 

The  Play  is  O'er 47 

A  Rondeau 48 

The  Red  Bird. .. . 49 

Sunset  in  Breathitt 50 

Eyes  Divine 51 

Jack  Frost 52 

Ad  Aquilam 53 

The  Ice  King  in  the  South 54 

Fettered 56 

Helen  of  Troy 57 

Cow  Bells 58 

Hollyhocks 59 

Burns 60 

Robert  Loveman 61 

Books 62 

Songs  Unsung 63 

The  Rainbow's  End 64 

Linen  and  Lace 

Down  Lover's  Lane 67 

Beneath  the  Chestnut  Tree 68 

Jack  and  Jill 70 

Natura 71 

Her  Eyes 73 

The  Rose  of  Love 74 

My  Jewels 76 


A  Recollection 77 

The  Moonshiners 78 

Silhouettes 83 

Wade 85 

A  Song 86 

The  Bloom  of  Love 88 

My  Muse 89 

A  Hank  of  Homespun 

The  School  of  Skinny 93 

One-Armed  Joe 95 

Wes  Perkins 97 

The  First  Mess  of  Greens 98 

Wes  Banks 100 

Philosophy  at  a  Banquet 102 

Anent  Halley's  Comet 103 


PROEM 

Warp  and  woof  from  the  loom  of  Life — 
A  fabric  wrought  in  endless  strife: — 
Lights  and  shadows,  night  and  day, 
A  thousand  tints  of  gold  and  gray — 
Ten  thousand  shades  in  leaf  and  bloom, 
WARP  and  WOOF  from  Life's  great  Loom. 


A  SKEIN  OF  SILVER 


THE  OLD-FASHIONED  LOOM 

The  old  log  house  where  Margaret  lived,  whose 
roof  had  mossy  grown, 

Reposed  amid  its  clump  of  trees,  a  queen  upon  her 
throne. 

The  landscape  round  smiled  proudly  and  the 
flowers  shed  sweet  perfume, 

When  Margaret  plied  the  shuttle  of  the  rude  old- 
fashioned  loom. 

The  world  has  grown  fastidious — demands  things 

ever  new — 
But  we  could  once  see  beauties  in  the  rainbow's 

every  hue; 
The  bee  could  then  find  nectar  in  a  common  clover 

bloom, 
And  simple  hearts  hear  music  in  the  shuttle  of  the 

loom. 

The  picture  that  my  memory  paints  is  never  seen 
to-day — 

The  April  sun  of  by-gone  years  has  lost  its  bright- 
est ray : 

A  fancy-wrought  piano  in  a  quaint,  antique  old 
room, 

But  Margaret  sang  her  sweetest  to  the  music  of 
the  loom. 

She  wore  a  simple  home-spun  dress,  for  Marga- 
ret's taste  was  plain, 

Yet  life  was  like  a  song  to  her,  with  work  a  sweet 
refrain. 

The  sunshine  filled  her  days  with  joy,   night's 
shadows  brought  no  gloom, 
11 


When  Margaret  plied  the  shuttle  of  the  old,  old" 
fashioned  loom. 

Her  warp  of  life  was  toiling  hard,  but  love  its 
beauteous  woof, 

The  web  she  wove,  a  character  beyond  the  world's 
reproof. 

O  girls  of  wealth  and  beauty  vain,  who  dress  in 
rich  costume, 

How  sweet  the  shuttle's  music  of  this  rare  old- 
fashioned  loom. 

The  world  may  grow  fastidious  in  art  and  nature 

too, 
And   say  there   is   no   beauty   in   the   rainbow's 

every  hue; 
And  yet  the  bee  finds  nectar  in  a  common  clover 

bloom, 
And  I  still  love  the  music  of  the  old,  old-fashioned 

loom. 


12 


THE  OLD  OLD  CLOCK 

Dear  old  Old  Clock,  thy  grave  tick  tock 

I  heard  in  my  childhood  days, 
In  the  solemn  night,  when  the  fire  burned  bright, 

And  the  lamp  cast  feeble  rays; 
When  grandmother  close  by  the  mantlepiece, 
Sat  dozing  or  knitting,  or  carding  fleece, 

Or  watching  the  dying  blaze; 
When  mother  was  young  and  her  beautiful  hair 

Had  never  a  silver  thread; 
When  her  life  was  fair  as  her  love  was  rare, 

In  the  years  that  have  swiftly  sped. 

Thy  grave  tick  tock,  dear  old  Old  Clock, 

Unchanged  through  the  changing  years, 
Still  beating  time  in  a  ceaseless  rhyme 

To  the  dirge  of  the  rolling  spheres, — 
Unmindful  that  she  by  the  mantlepiece 
Is  gone  with  her  knitting  and  carding  fleece, — 

Unmoved  by  our  sorrowing  tears — 
Brings  back  the  days  when  mother's  hair 

Had  never  a  silver  thread, 
And  the  life  still  fair  in  its  beauty  rare 

When  the  snows  had  crowned  her  head. 


13 


THE  OLD  SPINNING  WHEEL 

A  cabin !     It  nestled  amid  the  green  hills 

Where  grew  no  bramble  or  thistle, — 
Mid  meadows  melodious  with  music  and  trills 
And  song  that  the  wild-throated  mocking  bird 
spills 

On  the  air  from  his  marvelous  whistle. 
No  carpets  were  seen  on  the  broad  puncheon 
floors, 

No  paintings  that  wealth  would  reveal; 
But  a  statue  was  there  that  Art  can  not  know, 
That  filled  the  rude  room  with  a  musical  glow, — 

Twas  Ruth  at  the  Old  Spinning  Wheel! 

Long  years  have  passed  by;  its  music  was  stilled 

At  rattle  and  whirr  of  machinery. 
And  the  pea-fowl  now  screams  where  the  mocking 

bird  trilled, 
And  the  landscape  is  dead  where  once  the  heart 
thrilled 

At  wildwood  and  picturesque  scenery. 
The  opera  may  boast  the  diva  of  song, 

To  me  she  makes  no  appeal; 
To  flute  obligato  my  heart  is  still  dumb, 
But  oh !  for  the  song  and  musical  hum 

Of  Ruth  and  the  Old  Spinning  Wheel! 

She  lived  but  a  simple,  plain  rustic  life, 
Yet  charming  in  sooth  was  her  beauty. 

In  her  untutored  heart  was  love  ever  rife, 

The  seat  of  no  conflict,  no  struggle  or  strife 
'Twixt  a  selfish  will  and  duty. 

I  bow  at  her  altar  of  beauty  and  truth, 
14 


At  the  shrine  of  her  heart  do  I  kneel, 
With  a  prayer  no  mortal  ever  lifted  above, 
Till  my  soul  is  atune  with  the  music  of  love 

She  sings  to  the  Old  Spinning  Wheel ! 

This  unlettered  maiden  was  poor,  but  high-bred, 

Oh,  women  of  fashion,  far  above  you! 
And  I  thrilled  at  the  graceful  poise  of  her  head 
And  the  radiant  smile  of  my  love  when  she  said, 

"Why  James,  you  know  that  I  love  you." 
Nymph-like  her  lithe  form  swayed  as  in  dance, 

I  awkwardly  sat  at  the  reel — 
A  moment's  surcease  of  monotonous  thrum, — 
Melodious  the  lull  in  the  song  and  the  hum 

Of  Ruth  and  the  Old  Spinning  Wheel! 

The  glow  of  the  incandescent  light 

Has  banished  the  tallow  candle; 
And  the  ox-cart  is  gone  at  steam's  rapid  flight, 
But  Love  is  too  subtle,  is  too  recondite 

For  Learning  or  Genius  to  handle. 
All  honor  to  Science,  let  her  keep  her  mad  pace, 

I  abate  not  a  tittle  her  zeal ; 
But  the  splendors  of  life  can  never  efface 
The  picture  of  Ruth  in  plain  rustic  grace 

Who  wrought  at  the  Old  Spinning  Wheel ! 


15 


THE  OLD  WATER  MILL 

'Twas  grinding  day  at  the  Old  Water  Mill, 

But  holiday  with  me, 
For  I  knew  ere  I  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill 
And  heard  the  voice  of  the  happy  rill, 

The  miller's  beautiful  child  was  there 

That  wore  the  tresses  of  sun-lit  hair 
And  smile  of  witchery; 

And  the  twittering  swallows  awhirl  in  the  air, 
Told  in  their  ecstacy 
That  Rachel,  the  Golden  Daffodil, 
Was  blooming  again  by  the  Old  Water  Mill. 

Together  we  cross  the  moss-covered  log 

That  spans  the  old  mill  race, 
And  we  hear  through  the  mists  and  rising  fog 
The  boom  of  the  dam,  the  croak  of  the  frog, 

That  wakes,  on  the  banks  of  the  glinting  stream, 

The  violet  tranced  in  her  winter  dream, 
Where  lights  and  shadows  lace; 

And  the  cowslip,  like  the  meteor's  gleam, 
Darts  from  her  hiding-place, 
While  the  cataracts  leap  in  their  haste  to  fill 
The  floats  of  the  wheel  at  the  Old  Water  Mill. 

We  sit  by  the  dam  of  the  placid  stream 

And  watch  the  whirl  and  churn 
Of  the  pouring  floods  that  bubble  and  steam 
And  glitter  and  flash  in  the  bright  sunbeam, 
While  steadily  rolls  the  dripping  wheel 
That  slowly  grinds  the  farmers'  meal, 

Who  restless  wait  their  turn; 
But  the  lights  in  the  miller's  face  reveal 
16 


Never  the  least  concern, 
Who  takes  his  toll,  and  whistles  until 
The  hopper  is  drained  at  the  Old  Water  Mill. 

To-day  we  passed  where  the  Old  Water  Mill 

Had  stood  in  the  long  ago, 
But  the  cataracts  leap  no  more  on  the  hill, 
And  the  boom  of  the  roaring  dam  is  still, 

For  the  gleaming  stream  in  its  grief  went  dry, 

When  the  ruthless  hand  of  Art  passed  by 
And  laid  the  Old  Mill  low; 

And  the  violets,  cold  in  death,  now  lie 
Wrapped  in  the  glistening  snow; 
And  the  biting  air  is  crisp  and  chill 
Around  the  ruins  of  the  Old  Water  Mill. 

And  now  we  sit  by  the  River  of  Time 

And  gaze  at  the  waves  below, 
But  its  brink  is  covered  by  frost  and  rime, 
And  we  hear  on  the  wind  a  muffled  chime 

Proclaiming  the  end  of  a  brief  sojourn : 

Yet  the  floods  of  life  still  whirl  and  churn 
As  the  currents  ebb  and  flow: — 

By  the  rolling  wheel  we  wait  our  turn 
Calm,  but  ready  to  go! 
The  hopper  is  drained,  but  unmoved  still, 
The  Miller  who  grinds  in  Time's  Water  Mill. 


17 


WATERLOO 

A  meeting-house,  no  church  at  all, 

With  stained  cathedral  glass, 
With  lofty  spire  and  arching  hall, 

And  terraced  lawns  of  grass: 
No  organ  peals,  no  chanting  choir, 

No  frescoed  walls  that  men  admire 
Had  this  old  meeting-house; 
But  roses  wild  their  petals  piled 

About  its  sacred  door, 
And  locust  bloom  shed  rich  perfume, 

Upon  the  air,  galore, 

Around  the  meeting-house. 

It  stood  upon  a  limpid  stream 

My  childhood  thought  divine, 
Whose  waters  pure  did  ever  gleam 

Like  shimmering  shine  of  wine; 
It  stood,  alas!  but  stands  no  more 

Upon  the  bank  or  pebbly  shore 
Of  sunny  Pleasant  Run; 
Yet  in  my  dreams,  it  often  seems 

I  see  thee,  Waterloo, 
And  see  the  flash  of  beaded  splash 

Upon  the  waters  too, 

While  crossing  Pleasant  Run. 

Yes,  in  my  dreams,  I  often  hear 
The  songs  they  used  to  sing — 
Those  solemn  lays  of  reverent  fear, 

When  Christ  indeed  was  King: 
Then  sinners  bowed  when  prayer  was  led 
By  some  poor  saint  the  ravens  fed 
At  holy  Waterloo. 

18 


How  free  from  lust,  the  simple  trust 
Of  soul  that  worshipped  there; 

How  free  from  guile  were  men  erstwhile 
Whose  creed  was  song  and  prayer, 
The  creed  of  Waterloo. 

The  meeting  days  were  always  fair — 

God  smiled  on  Waterloo! 
And  mother  rode  the  dark  brown  mare, 

And  took  the  mule  colt,  too; 
For  fashion  then  did  not  beguile 

A  mother's  heart  with  worldly  wile, 
Ah!  happy  days  agone! 
Oh!  days  no  more  when  mothers  wore 

Sunhood  and  riding  skirt, 
And  fathers  dressed  their  Sunday  best, 

A  plain  check-cotton-shirt, — 
Ah !  happy  days  agone ! 


The  sunlight  dances  on  the  hills 

That  shelter  Waterloo; 
I  see  the  gold  of  daffodils 

That  bloom  the  meadow  through — 
The  hour  has  come,  for  meeting's  broke, 

And  now  the  simple  country  folk 
Are  leaving  Waterloo! 
The  horses  neigh;  away,  away! 

Away,  but  not  for  home; 
Grandma  to-day,  will  smile  and  say, 

"My  boy,  my  boy  has  come." 
Oh,  blessed  Waterloo! 


19 


IN  THE  HAPPY  LONG  AGO 

Yes,  I  see  him,  still  he's  sitting 

By  his  little  cabin  door ! 
Ah!  but  Dinah's  gone!     She  left  him 

For  the  shining,  golden  shore; 
Left  old  Isham  where  he's  dreaming 

With  his  head  bowed  deep  and  low, 
Thinking  only  now  of  Dinah, 

And  the  happy  long  ago. 

Long  the  kinky  wool  was  creamy, 

Now  as  white  as  any  snow; 
And  his  eyes  are  red  and  dreamy, 

Thinking  of  the  long  ago. 
Massa  sleeps  beneath  the  ivy, 

Missus,  where  the  daisies  blow; 
Near  them  Dinah,  and  old  Isham's 

Dreaming  of  the  long  ago; — 

Thinking  of  the  days  when  Dinah 

Won  old  Missus'  heart  and  praise, 
By  her  wondrous  dainty  cooking, 

And  her  charming  well-bred  ways: — 
When  his  own  black  arm  was  brawny — 

Swift  the  step  that  now  is  slow — 
When  he  stole  the  heart  of  Dinah, 

In  the  happy  long  ago. 

What  care  they  for  big  corn  shuckings? — 

Negroes  versed  in  modern  lore — 
"  What  a  fool  is  poor  old  Isham 

Dozing  by  his  cabin  door!" 
Ah!  I  know  why  Isham's  dreaming 

Where  the  gourd-vines  twine  and  grow; 
He  is  living  still  with  Dinah, 

In  the  happy  long  ago! 
20 


THE  OLD  DRINKING  GOURD 

A  deep  alcove  where  clambering  vine 
Enfashioned  wreathes  of  green  festoon, 
Where  through  the  long,  long  afternoon 

No  ray  of  summer's  sultry  shine 

E'er  kissed  the  rustic  grape-vine  swing: 

High  up  the  purpling  muscadine 

Clung  close  to  where  the  waters  poured, 
And  he  saw  the  glint  of  the  redbird's  wing 
In  the  crystal  wave  of  the  mossy  spring, 
As  she  stooped  for  the  Old  Drinking  Gourd. 

The  odor  tint  of  elder  bloom 

The  zephyrs  wafted  through  the  spray. 

Was  fresh  as  dew  at  dawn  of  day, 

Caught  in  the  geometric  loom, 

Arachne  plies  with  subtle  hand: 

A  pigeon  bathed  his  snowy  plume, 

A  fading  speck  the  vulture  soared; 

And  a  tide  swept  in  across  the  sand 

As  they  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  golden 

strand 

And  drank  from  the  Old  Drinking  Gourd. 
***** 

A  palace  wrought  of  art  sublime 

Where  antique  paintings  haunt  the  walls, 
And  gilded  foot  as  silent  falls 
In  depths  of  plush,  as  flight  of  time, 

And  liquid  music  softer  blows 
Than  Hymen's  mellow  golden  chime: 
They  plighted  troth  beneath  the  sword 

Of  the  knight  that  wore  the  blood  red  rose; 
But  they  drank  of  the  cup  that  never  flows 
From  the  bowl  of  the  Old  Drinking  Gourd. 
21 


Now  sunset  spills  his  scarlet  dyes 
Through  fleecy  rifts  of  snowy  cloud, 
And  night  puts  on  her  ebon  shroud, 

And  stars  look  out  of  wintry  skies: 
Still  spacious  halls  with  revels  ring 

Where  chivalry  with  beauty  vies, 
And  red-wine  flows  at  festive  board. 
But  oh!  for  the  cove  where  the  redbirds 
sing 

By  the  crystal  wave  of  the  mossy  spring, 
And  a  draught  from  the  Old  Drinking  Gourd. 


22 


A  SPOOL  OF  SILK 


SOLITUDE 

To  live  alone  where  man  nor  beast  e'er  stood, 
Ten-thousand  miles  beyond  the  site  of  home; 
To  walk  at  night  the  catacombs  of  Rome, 

Or  dwell  within  some  deep  death-haunted  wood; 

To  feel  like  Bonaparte  with  power  endued, 

Yet  doomed  to  sleep  beneath  the  starry  dome, 
And  listen  to  the  ocean  chafe  and  foam, — 

Not  this,  not  all  of  these,  is  solitude. 

But  oh,  to  be  alone  within  the  hive 

Of  teeming  life,  where  thousands  live  and  move 
And  have  their  shallow  beings, — there  to  strive 

With  doubt  and  faith,  and  feel  the  soul  expand 
Beyond  the  utmost  reach  of  those  we  love, 

And  know  that  they  can  never  understand. 


25 


LOVES  TRIUMPH 

To  Hart's  Triumph  of  Chastity 
(destroyed  by  fire) 

Ah,  shattered  form,  ihy  beauty,  chaste  as  frost, 

Once  held  in  thrall  the  heart  of  lord  and  swain. 

While  Cupid  sped  his  strongest  shafts  in  vain 
Thou  didst  not  dream  the  price  thy  triumph  cost, 
Or  know  thy  charm  would  be  forever  lost, 

When  Time  with  jealous  wind  or  flood  should 
stain 

Thy  snowy  brow  in  grime,  or  part  in  twain 
Thy  marble  heart  in  fervent  holocaust! 

Thy  spell  is  gone;  but  oh,  the  maid  whose  heart 
Was  riven  by  the  little  wing-ed  god 

That  dipped  his  arrow  in  the  scarlet  stream 
Of  my  own  life,  shall  triumph  over  Art 

And   Time, — my   love,    whose   ardent   pulsing 
blood 
Shall  quicken  other  lives  and  reign  supreme! 


26 


MY  GUIDING  STAR 

Adrift  alone  on  life's  bleak  ocean  waste, 

Through    starless    nights    and    dreary    sunless 

days; 
Wherever  currents  led  o'er  pathless  maze, 

I  plied  the  oars  of  aimless  toil,  and  faced 

Defeat  impatiently,  nor  ever  traced 
One  ray  of  hope  along  the  murky  haze 
Of  life's  horizon,  till  I  caught  the  blaze 

Of  one  lone  star,  whose  light  was  virgin-chaste. 

But  now  I  sail  through  seas  where  fortune  smiles, 
And  not  a  cloud  the  brilliant  sky  doth  mar ; 
For,  ever  twinkling  near  that  blazing  light, 
A  little  orb  my  every  care  beguiles : 

My  radiant  wife  is  that  lone  guiding  star, 
My  laughing  blue-eyed  boy  its  satellite ! 


27 


AFTER   READING 

SAMUEL   MINTURN   PECK'S 

RHYMES  AND  ROSES 

The  drowsy  drone  of  honey-laden  bees, 

The  poppied  breath  of  gardens  blooming  fair, 
The  scent  of  elder  blossoms,  sweet  and  rare, 

Come  stealing  in  on  balmy  southern  breeze; 

And  dying  lays,  whose  long  lost  melodies 
Still  haunt  old  storied  ruins  everywhere, 
Are  dimly  floating  through  the  fragrant  air — 

I  dream  beneath  the  blooming  apple  trees : 

A  merry  orchestra  of  nymphs  and  fays 

Has  gathered  in  the  pine-tree's  elfin  shade, 
With  naid  shell  and  fairy  reed  and  string, 
While  Mint  urn  Peck  the  magic  baton  sways. 
And  when  the  band  his  "Rhymes  and  Roses" 
played, 
The  dryads'  voices  made  the  woodlands  ring! 


28 


THERE'S  NOTHING 
DARK  ABOUT  HER  BUT  HER  HAIR 

There's  nothing  dark  about  her  but  her  hair! 
Her  liquid  eyes,  as  blue  as  Grecian  seas, 
Affect  me,  like  a  moonlit  southern  breeze, 

From  off  the  fields  of  sweet  magnolias  rare; 
Her  sympathetic  soul  is  pure  and  fair 
And  spotless  as  the  petals  of  a  rose: 
Her  gown  is  like  a  drift  of  northern  snows — 

There's  nothing  dark  about  her  but  her  hair! 

But  oh,  her  hair,  ye  priests,  ye  gods,  her  hair! 
Those  silken  strands  of  raveled  midnight  wove 
Into  a  Cupid's  mesh,  a  net  of  love ! 

Ah,  I  confess  that  I'm  entangled  there! 
But  Susan's  life's  as  spotless  as  a  dove, — 

There's  nothing  dark  about  her  but  her  hair. 


BLIND  TOM 

Oh,  happy,  sad,  mysterious,  wondrous  soul ! 

Imprisoned  in  a  living  dungeon  deep 

The  fates  have  bound  thee;  but  they  can  not 
keep 
For  ay  that  spirit  in  their  dark  control 
Who  hear'st  the  music  of  the  spheres  that  roll 

Through  silent  time ;  those  beauteous  orbs  that 
sweep 

Through  space  and  glitter  in  the  boundless  deep, 
Will  yet  thy  blind,  benighted  life  console. 

What  sin  didst  thou  commit,  or  whom  offend? 
That  doomed  thee  to  a  carnal  cell  so  gross 
That  scarce  a  hint  of  what  thou  really  art 
Has  ever  reached  the  world, — who  couldst  trans- 
cend 
In  matchless  music,  purged  of  all  thy  dross, 
The  great  Beethoven  or  divine  Mozart. 


30 


A  SONNET  OF  THE  SEASON 

The  carol  in  my  heart  I  send  to  you: 

It  comes  from  out  the  depths  of  brooding  time 

To  cheer  and  bless  in  every  place  and  clime ; 
To  purge  the  false,  to  chasten  and  subdue; 
To  lift  the  drooping  life,  inspire  the  true 

To  nobler  deeds  and  thoughts  of  love  sublime. 

This  anthem — which  I  sing  in  sonnet  rhyme — 
Judean  shepherds  heard  and  angels  knew ! 

And  now  we  fear  no  longer  war's  alarms, 

For  red-eyed  Mars  has  fled  at  last  our  home : 

Christ  took  the  little  children  in  his  arms 

And  blessed  them,  saying,  Suffer  them  to  come 

To  me  that  all  the  sons  of  men  may  find 

My  kingdom  here  within  the  child-like  mind. 


31 


EUTERPE 

O  lyric  muse,  thou  didst  not  tune  alone 
The  lyre  that  loving  Orpheus  smote 
With  subtle  touch  and  struck  the  golden  note 

That  pierced  dread  Pluto's  heart  of  stone, 

And  won  again  Eurydice  his  own; 

Nor  yet  Erate's  lute,  nor  Sappho's  throat 
That  thrilled  the  ear  in  Grecian  isles  remote, 

Where  Homer  sang,  and  Art  had  built  her  throne : 

But  thou,  Euterpe,  touched  blind  Milton's  tongue, 
And  swept  the  thousand  chords  of  Shakespeare's 
soul ; 
Woke  Byron  from  his  hours  of  idle  dream, 
And  then  he  sang  mankind  a  deathless  song. 
But  thou  at  last  didst  reach  the  lyric  goal 
Of  art  in  Tennsyon's  immortal  theme. 


32 


SCARLET  DAYS 
To  F.  W.  B.  Family. 

Those  scarlet  days  come  back  to  me  to-night 
Across  the  span  of  many  happy  years — 
Dreams,  haunted  by  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

And  glowing  skies  of  gold  and  chrysolite. 

The  world  of  science  bursting  on  my  sight, 
And  words  of  wisdom  falling  on  my  ears, 

The  rhythmic  thought  of  poets,  priests,  and  seers. 

Wrought  in  my  life  a  spell  of  wild  delight. 

Not  all :  three  figures — Faith  and  Hope  and  Love — 

I  see  them  still  through  years  of  mist  and  haze — 

Hope  crowned  with  light,  and  Faith  of  godly 

ken; 

And  Love  was  like  a  meek  unconscious  dove. 

Dear  God,  although  I  count  those  scarlet  days, 

To-night  I  would  not  have  them  back  again. 


33 


HER  EYES  ARE  BROWN 

Her  eyes  are  brown,  oh,  Edith's  eyes  are  brown! 
I  will  not  boast  the  midnight  of  her  hair, 
Nor  yet  because  her  radiant  cheek  is  fair, 

And  like  the  touch  of  autumn's  thistle  down; 

I  will  not  swear  I  have  not  seen  her  frown ; 
She  may  be  rich  and  proud  and  debonair, 
For  aught  I  know,  I'm  sure  I  do  not  care: 

But  oh,  her  eyes,  her  eyes  are  Edith's  crown ! 

I've  gazed  upon  the  stars  of  northern  skies, 

And   breathed   the   perfume   of   the   southern 

breeze; 
I've  listened  to  the  boom  of  far-off  seas 
On  mystic  shores;  I've  seen  the  full  moon  rise 
Through  branch  and  bloom  of  old  magnolia 
trees ! 
There's  nothing  like  the  thrill  of  Edith's  eyes! 


34 


THE  NATURALIST 

The  shouts  of  happy  boys  he  does  not  hear, 

Nor  knows  that  wretched  men  must  toil  for 

bread; 
The  tragedy  of  life  he  has  not  read, 

Or  deems  it  but  the  comedy  of  fear : 

He  never  lifts  his  eyes  above  the  ground 
To  gaze  upon  the  glittering  world  of  stars ; 
The  poet's  richest  music  only  mars 

The  rasping  of  the  locust's  strident  sound. 

And  yet  I've  never  seen  a  wilder  light 

Glow  in  the  beauteous  eyes  of  dawning  love, 

Than  flashes  from  this  strange  man's  soul  at  sight 
Of  some  rare  flower  he  finds  in  mountain  cove: 

Mere  fungus,  or  the  poisonous,  dank  mushroom, 

Enchants  him  more  than  rich  magnolia  bloom ! 


35 


DEDICATION 

(To  H.  H.  T.) 

O  soul  responsive  to  the  subtlest  thought 
That  flashes  o'er  the  mind's  electric  wire, 
Or  ever  swept  the  strings  of  fancy's  lyre 

To  music  learned  in  schools  where  Shakespeare 
taught : 

O  thou  who  knowest  the  springs  whence  Sappho 
caught 
Love's  brimming  cup  that  did  her  song  inspire, 
Yet  dost  my  plain,  unlettered  muse  admire, 

Who  lived  in  better  days  when  maidens  wrought — 

To  thee,  I  dedicate  my  fondest  rhymes 

In  memory  of  happy  days  of  yore, 
Together  on  the  Cumberland,  where  Ruth, 
The  charming  rustic  maid  of  olden  times 

First  won  our  love,  less  for  her  lack  of  lore, 
Than  for  her  sweet  simplicity  and  truth. 


36 


NEARING  THE  MERIDIAN 

(To  M.  E.  W.) 

I  dream  to-night  of  happy  childhood  days; 

I  see  two  humble  homes  and  thrill  with  joy; 

The  years  come  back  when  I  was  but  a  boy, 
And  you  had  ringlets  for  the  gods  to  praise : 
The  old  Old  Swing,  the  fields  of  golden  maize ; 

The  moving  pictures  in  the  clouds  above; 

The  mating  birds,  their  nests,  their  songs  of 
love — 
All  this,  dear  Lord,  through  years  of  mist  and 
haze! 

And  then  I  turn  and  look  beyond  the  Shade, 
And  those  who  wrought  for  us  are  waiting  there : 
Our  mothers  with  their  crowns  of  silver  hair, 

And  radiant  smiles  of  love  that  will  not  fade; 
Our  fathers  with  the  keys  to  all  the  creeds 
Are  there  still  strong  in  faith  and  pure  in  deeds. 


37 


OUR  PILGRIMAGE 

(To  the  Canterbury  Club) 

The  merry  band  that  started  long  ago 

Upon  their  journey  to  a-Becket's  saintly  shrine, 
Were  happy  that  a  poet's  pen  divine 

Inspired  by  all  a  genial  wit  can  know, 

Or  sympathetic  human  heart  bestow, 
Recorded  in  immortal  rhythmic  line, 
As  sweet  as  breath  of  old  Provencal  wine, 

Their  pilgrim  tales  and  songs  of  joy  and  woe. 

We  start  to-night  upon  our  pilgrimage, 

Who  worship  at  a  holier  shrine  than  they — 
The  living  temple  of  the  sacred  muse  : 
May  she  who  is  our  patron  saint  infuse, 
Illume  our  souls  ;  and  raise  some  Pen,  I  pray, 
To  leave  the  world  a  noble  heritage. 


ANTE  NUPTIAL 

{To  a  Physician  engaged  to  a  Nurse) 

When  young  Dan  Cupid  dipped  his  fiery  shaft 
Deep  in  the  liquid  blue  of  Psyche's  eyes, 
Then  took  three  strands  of  raveled  midnight 
skies 

And  strung  his  silver  bow  with  these,  and  laughed, 

Thy  doom,  O  son  of  Esculapius'  craft, 
Was  sealed: — the  fatalest  dart  that  flies 
Is  Eros'  bolt,  and  surest  of  its  prize — 

And  now,  physician,   take  thy  healing  draft. 

Ah,  no:  it  is  not  unto  death,  but  life, 

That  thou  art  sick,  although  pierced  through  the 
heart ! 

Wondrous  disease  that  no  physician's  art 
Can  heal,  that  will  not  yield  to  surgeon's  knife, — 

A  blessed  wound  that  ever  must  grow  worse. 

How  fortunate,  O  man,  that  she's  a  nurse ! 


39 


DR.  MILES  SAUNDERS 

He  held  the  key  to  every  mystic  door 

Of  Egypt's  shrine;  he  knew  the  sacred  rite 
Of  druid,  sage  and  seer;  and  loved  the  light 

Of  Babylonian  and  Assyrian  lore: 

He  saw  old  Enoch  when  he  walked  with  God; 
He  watched  Elijah  smite  the  prophets  dead; 
He  knew  the  Israelites  whom  Moses  led; 

And  looked  upon  the  bloom  of  Aaron's  rod ! 

And  yet  this  man  who  gazed  on  gods  and  kings, 
And  saw  and  felt  whatever  mortal  can, 
Was  like  his  Christ,  the  lowly  Son  of  Man, 

A  tender  minister  in  humble  things. 
He  had  a  royal  mind,  a  priestly  ken; 

But  best  of  all  he  loved  and  helped  young  men. 


40 


A  SOLILOQUY 

{To  F.   K.   G.) 

The  beauteous  sun  sank  to  an  awful  gloom; 

The  stars  came  out  and  mocked  at  my  despair; 

The  flowers  that  thronged  the  wayside  smiling 
fair, 
Had  lost  the  subtle  charm  of  scent  and  bloom : 
The  world  was  dull  and  vapid  as  the  tomb. 

I  watched  a  myriad  lovers,  pair  by  pair, 

And  heard  their  shouts  of  joy  burst  on  the  air, 
Until  my  heart  grew  callous  at  its  doom. 

When  ten  and  seven  weary  cycles  passed, 
The  pent-up  sunshine  of  a  thousand  years 
Burst  on  the  scene  and  filled  the  hills  and 

vales 
With  light  and  love  and  song  and  fairy  tales, 
And  dried  the  very  source  and  fount  of  tears. 
Ye  gods,  the  light  of  love,  at  last,  at  last ! 


41 


GOLD    AND    GOSSAMER 


TO  THE  MOCKING  BIRD 

Whence  is  thy  song, 

Voluptuous  soul  of  the  amorous  South! 
Oh?  whence  the  wind,  the  rain,  the  drouth; 
The  dews  of  eve ;  the  mists  of  morn ; 
The  bloom  of  rose;  the  thistle's  thorn; 
Whence  light  of  love;  whence  dark  of  scorn; 
Whence    joy;    whence    grief;     Death,    born     of 

wrong — 
Ah!  whence  is  life  ten-thousand  passions  throng?- — 
Thence  is  thy  song ! 

Thou  singest  the  rage  of  jealous  Moor, 

The  passionate  love  of  Juliet; 

Thy  villainous  art  can  weave  a  net 

With  shreds  of  song,  that  never  yet 
Hath  lover  escaped,  however  noble  and  pure. 

Ophelia's  broken  heart  is  thine, 
And  Desdemona's,  true  and  good; 
Thou  paintest  the  damn-ed  spot  of  blood 

That  will  not  not  out  in  stain  or  line ! 
Oh  Lear!     Oh  Fool!     Oh  Witch!     Macbeth! 
And  wondrous  Hamlet  in  a  breath! 

Who  knows  thy  heart?  thy  song?  thy  words? 

Thou  Shakespeare  in  the  realm  of  birds ! 


45 


A   RONDEL 

October,  queen  of  autumn  days, 

With  green  and  crimson  leaves  is  crowned; 

Her  russet  cheeks  are  sun-embrowned, 
Her  hair  all  golden  in  the  haze : 

She  sits  upon  a  throne  ablaze, 

Her  limbs  with  royal  robes  are  gowned — 
October,  queen  of  autumn  days, 

With  green  and  crimson  leaves  encrowned* 

But  now  o'erwhelmed  in  sad  amaze 
She  hears  a  far-off  rising  sound; 
The  hills  and  booming  seas  resound; 

The  plaintive  wind  her  requiem  plays — 

October,  queen  of  autumn  days. 


46 


THE  PLAY  IS  O'ER 

The  play  is  o'er!     Great  Wolsey's  dead — 
That  scarlet  power  once  England's  dread; 
And  lustful  Henry's  brutal  sin 
Hath  slain  the  noble  Catharine, — 
More  stainless  wife  was  never  wed. 

Anne  Boleyn  shares  the  royal  bed 
And  wears  upon  her  graceless  head 

The  good  queen's  crown  without  chagrin- 
The  play  is  o'er! 

A  few  brief  months  have  swiftly  sped, 
The  faithless  consort's  blood  is  shed. 

What  means  the  mighty  noise  within? 

The  trumpet's  blare,  the  cymbal's  din? 
Jane  Seymour's  to  the  altar  led, — 
The  play  is  o'er! 


47 


A   RONDEAU 

His  heart  was  pure :  he  loved  the  child 
That  dwelt  among  untrodden  ways 
And  dared  to  lift  his  voice  in  praise 

Of  humblest  wight  in  highlands  wild. 

Poor,  wretched  man  by  sin  defiled, 
He  sang  in  sympathetic  lays — 
His  heart  was  pure. 

The  blithe  cuckoo  and  daisy  mild, 
The  daffodils,  like  elfin  fays, 
The  mystery  of  sunset  haze 

O'er  barren  moors,  his  pen  beguiled — 
His  heart  was  pure. 


48 


THE   RED   BIRD 

Animated,  flashing,  flame  of  scarlet, 
Teasing,  tantalizing,  madcap  varlet, 
Glooming,  glinting  through  the  boughs, 
Making,  breaking  lover's  vows; 
Dashing  leader  of  the  choir, 
Standing  on  the  topmost  spire, 
Scintillating  song  and  fire, 

Calls  me:  Come  up — come  up — higher,  higher, 
higher! 

Daytime  meteor  trailing  light, 
Like  a  shooting  star  at  night — 
Just  a  moment  of  delight, 

Followed  by  a  mad  desire : 
But  the  flaming  flash  of  scarlet, 
Tantalizing  madcap  varlet, 
Hiding  from  my  aching  sight — 

This  time  just  a  little  nigher — 
Laughing  from  his  le  fy  height, 

Mocks  me:  Come  up— come  up — higher,  higher, 
higher! 


49 


SUNSET  IN  BREATHITT 

Through  purple  haze  of  evening  mountain  mist, 
A  spiral  thread  of  dark  blue  smoke  arose 
From  hidden  cove  and  rugged  steep  defile; 
While  like  a  ball  of  blood  o'er  some  far  magic 
isle, 
The  sun  a  moment  hung  in  deep  repose, 
Above  a  placid  sea  of  amethyst, 
In  mystic  prophecy  of  death  and  doom, — 
Then  dropped  and  splashed  the  skv  with  crimson 
spray  and  spume! 


50 


EYES  DIVINE 

His  eyes  divine  were  shot  with  light 
Like  flashes  in  a  northern  night, 

Magnetic  gleam  that  wrought  a  spell 
On  whom  its  star-like  shimmer  fell — 
A  spell  of  wonder  and  delight; — 

Enchantment  such  as  gods  excite 
With  glowing  depths  of  chrysolite, 
Or  blooming  beds  of  asphodel — 
His  eyes  divine! 

In  metaphysics  recondite, 
In  realms  of  verse  by  royal  right 
Of  Genevieve  and  Christabel 
The  first  upon  the  mystic  shell; 
And  yet  his  greatest  charm  and  might 
Were  eyes  divine! 


51 


JACK  FROST 

In  a  pixy  chariot,  drawn, 

Not  by  deer,  but  elfin  fawn, 

Thou  hast  come,  Jack  Frost  and  gone. 

Silently,  unheralded, 

O'er  the  earth  thy  chariot  sped; 

Dear  Jack  Frost,  where  hast  thou  fled? 

Thou  the  child 's  and  poet's  friend, 
Brings 't  us  blessings  without  end, 
Joys  the  world  can  not  transcend. 

Naught  but  beauty  nowr  remains- 
Flowers,  ferns  and  fairy  fanes, 
Wrought  upon  the  window  panes; 

Fields  and  forests  all  aglow, — 
Colors  only  thou  dost  know : 
How  the  heart  doth  overflow! 

Purple  clusters  thine  and  mine, 
Winter-wild  and  muscadine, 
Bursting  with  the  wine  of  vine ! 

Haws,  persimmons,  berries  red, 
Nuts  the  earth  have  overspread — 
Dear  Jack  Frost,  why  hast  thou  fled? 

Old  Chris  we  hail  wTith  all  his  boast, 

His  jolly  fun  and  merry  cost, 

But  oh,  we  love  Jack  Frost,  Jack  Frost! 


52 


AD  AQUILAM 

"Bird  of  the  broad  and  sweeping  wing," 
0  bird  of  whom  the  poets  sing, 
0  emblem  of  the  noblest  thing 

Of  which  mankind  can  boast! 
Didst  thou  but  know  thy  image  decked 
That  which  commands  the  world's  respect, 
And  makes  kings  kneel  as  slaves  abject 

To  it,  their  god,  almost: 
Then  thou  wouldst  soar  to  greater  height 
Than  e'er  attained  by  birds  of  flight, 
To  show  the  eagle's  power  and  might, 

With  wings  unfurled  and  stiff; 
And  at  that  dizzy  height  survey 
The  sea  and  land  without  dismay, 

Till  weary,  sink  at  close  of  day 

Upon  thy  mountain  cliff: 

And  there  secure  from  all  the  world, 
Nestle,  with  plumed  wings  closely  furled 
That  sustained  thee  and  o'er  earth  whirled 

Thee  with  a  haughty  air. 
Ambitions  would  disturb  thy  dreams, 
The  night  air  shudder  with  thy  screams, 
And  like  the  human  soul  that  teems 

With  vain-glorious  care, 
Thy  heart  would  ache,  thy  soul  would  long, 
To  move  the  world,  to  sway  the  throng, 
Or  be  the  hero  of  the  song 

Of  some  great  epi  •  pen. 
'Tis  well,  O  bird  that  thou  art  free 
To  soar  the  air,  'tis  well  with  thee, 
'Tis  well  that  thou  hast  eyes  to  see, 

But  not  the  human  ken. 
53 


THE  ICE-KING  IN  THE  SOUTH 

He  came,  proud  monarch  of  the  Land  of  Snows, 
Triumphant,  in  his  argent  chariot,  decked 

With  jewels  mined  in  regions  of  the  polar  zones ! 
He  came!  his  fifty  snow  steeds  were  swift 
As  howling  north-winds,  and  their  flowing  manes 

Were    flecked    with    diamonds    brighter    than 
Brazillian  stones! 
He  came!     To  celebrate  his  triumph,  first 
He  spread  a  fleecy  mantle  o'er  the  earth — 

A   frozen   shroud  symbolic   of   the   Death   he 
wrought. 
And  then  to  every  pendent  branch  he  hung 
A  glittering  sword, — the  tyrant's  right  to  rule, — 

Demanding  greater  homage  than  ever  warrior 
sought. 

More  brilliant  pageant  than  the  Ice-King's  in 
The  Land  of  Flowers,  never  graced  return 

Of  oriental  monarch  from  victorious  wars. 
But  oh !  beneath  the  sparkle  and  the  gleam 
Of  crystal  beauty  beats  an  icy  heart, 

And  a  sullen  silence  his  splendid  triumph  mars ; 
The  waterfalls  that  leap  from  jutting  ledge 
In  happy  song,  are  speechless  as  the  tomb, 

And  every  melody  that  haunts  the  woods  and 
streams 
Has  vanished  from  the  earth,  and  Nature's  voice 
That  erstwhile  woke  the  matin  in  the  mead 

Is  silent  now  as  music  of  forgotten  dreams. 

Back  to  thy  home  in  the  icy  Land  of  Snows, 
O  tyrant  czar!     No  cringing  southern  heart 
Pays  honor  to  thy  rich  magnificence  and  power. 
54 


Back  with  thy  splendor  and  thy  glistening  gems! 
This  is  the  land  where  every  freeman  bows 

But  to  the  Queen  alone,  whose  sceptre  is  the 
flower. 
Back,  that  our  sovereign  may  usher  in 
The  reign  of  love  with  sunshine  and  with  song, 

And  drive  away  the  gloom  from  every  southern 
hearth. 
Back  rude  invader !  to  Siberian  climes ! 
And  let  our  royal  daughter,  Spring,  return 

To  fill  with  happiness  and  beauty  all  the  earth. 


55 


FETTERED 

Within  the  tented  dome  where  pheasant  rare, 
With  brilliant  plumage  caught  the  public  gaze, 
Or  magpie  won  applause  by  vulgar  phrase 

Picked  up  from  idle  crowd  that  thronged  the  fair, 

A  pensive  nightingale,  unnoticed  there, 

In  silence  sat  and  heard  men's  lavish  praise 
Of  these,  yet  all  unmindful  dreamed  of  lays 

In  freedom  she  might  pour  upon  the  air. 


56 


HELEN  OF  TROY 

Helen  of  Troy,  thy  face  was  fair, 
And  fair  thy  radiant  golden  hair, 
Thy  form,  in  every  molded  part, 
But  not  thy  false  and  fickle  heart, 
Helen  of  Troy. 

Betrayed  by  Aphrodite's  wiles, 
Oenone's  life  lost  all  its  smiles, 
And  tasted  sorrow  to  the  lees, 
When  Paris  sailed  for  sunset  seas, 
Where  reigned  the  queen  of  all  the  isles. 

Thy  beauty,  poignant  as  a  dart, 
Drave  god-like  men  to  wild  despair, 
And  lit  the  skies  with  lurid  glare : 
But  oh,  thy  false  and  fickle  heart, 
Helen  of  Troy! 


57 


COW  BELLS 

Oh,  the  distant  muffled  tinkling 

Of  the  cow  bells  in  the  vale, 
When  the  dawning  stars  are  twinkling 
And  the  silent  dews  are  sprinkling 

Fresh  the  daisies  in  the  dale. 
How  they  flood  the  soul  with  music 

Sad  as  song  of  nightingale — 
Tinkling  melodies  of  magic, 
Vague,  uncertain,  longing,  tragic, — 

Just  the  cow  bells  in  the  vale ! 


58 


HOLLYHOCKS 

It  may  not  be  quite  orthodox 

To  say  so  in  society, 
And  yet  I  think  the  hollyhocks, 

Of  every  known  variety, 
That  bloom  and  bless  the  humble  home, 

Are  sisters  sweet  of  charity, — 
Fair  nuns  that  wear  a  beauteous  cowl, — 
God's  priestesses  unto  the  soul 
That  lives  in  righteous  poverty. 


59 


BURNS 

Acrostic 

Warm-hearted  bard,  in  thee  I  find 
Infinite  soul,  irradiant  mind; 
Long-suffering  worth  and  love  refined 

Lent  thee  their  ken. 
In  Robert  Burns  the  heart  enshrined 

E'en  mice  and  men. 


60 


ROBERT  LOVEMAN 

He  knows  Will  Shakespeare's  human  heart 

And  feels  his  godlike  brain; 
And  sings  his  soul  a  kindred  part 

In  rondeau  and  quatrain. 


61 


BOOKS 

"Tis  early  morn  and  on  the  green 

The  children  are  at  play; 
The  sunlight  falls  in  sparkling  sheen, 

Their  hearts  are  blithe  and  gay: 
A  shadow  flits  across  the  scene — 

The  hour  has  come  that  sadness  brings, 

The  master  rings,  the  master  rings, 
'Tis  books! 

'Tis  late  at  eve,  and  o'er  the  green 

The  weary  toilers  pass; 
The  shadows  fall,  the  sky's  serene, 

And  dew  is  on  the  grass : 
A  light  breaks  in  upon  the  scene — 

The  hour  has  come  that  gladness  brings, 

The  Master  rings,  the  Master  rings, 
'Tis  books! 


SONGS   UNSUNG 

Unvoic-ed  songs  that  always  die 

On  the  strings  of  the  harp  that  gives  them  birth, 
The  flutter  of  hope,  a  breath,  a  sigh, 
The  song  nor  asks  nor  gives  a  why — 

The  poet's  song  he  deems  most  worth. 


The  silent  music  of  the  heart  is  sweet 

To  listen  to.     The  slow  and  measured  beat 

Of  the  imprisoned  soul  that  finds  a  voice 

In  melodious  sound  oxt  may  rejoice 

Us  much;  but  that  which  sometimes  plays  on 

strings 
Too  fine  to  sympathize  with  words  e'er  sings 
The  sweetest  melodies,  though  never  heard 
Except  by  ear  of  him  whose  soul  is  stirred. 


63 


THE  RAINBOW'S  END 

In  childhood's  fairy  hour  I  watched  a  bow 
The  Titian  Sun  had  painted  in  the  skies, 
And  marveled  at  its  wondrous  hues  and  dyes, 

And  held  my  breath  in  silence  at  its  glow; 

"The  hand  of  God,"  I  cried,  "Divine,  I  know'" 
And  at  the  thought  the  tears  stood  in  my  eyes. 
But  when  I  heard  that  awful  pack  of  lies 

About  the  pot  of  gold,  I  said,  "  'S  that  so!" 


64 


LINEN  AND  LACE 


DOWN  LOVER'S  LANE 

Down  Lover's  Lane  the  creamy  spray 
Of  elder  blooms  enchants  the  way, 
And  dappled  shadows  sport  and  play, 

Down  Lover's  Lane! 
Here  happy  redbirds  glint  and  gloom, 
The  wildrose  sheds  a  sweet  perfume, 
But  death  oft  lurks  in  leaf  and  bloom, 

Down  Lover's  Lane. 


67 


BENEATH  THE  CHESTNUT  TREE 

Long  years  ago  in  childhood's  hour, 
Beneath  an  old  Beech  Tree, 

A  sweeter  and  a  daintier  flower 
Than  ever  graced  a  lea. 

Unfolded  all  its  beauteous  bloom 

And  shed  its  rich  and  rare  perfume 
Alone,  alone  for  me. 

The  dewdrop  sparkling  on  the  rose 

Is  fresh  and  fair  to  see; 
I  love  the  lily  when  it  blows 

And  rocks  the  cradled  bee; 
But  fairer  than  the  diamond  dew 
Or  lily,  was  the  flower  that  grew 

Beneath  the  old  Beech  Tree. 

Rose-petaled  with  a  golden  fringe, 

And  calyx  to  agree; 
A  dash  of  sea-foam  and  a  tinge 

Of  sky  in  harmony; 
The  subtile  perfume  sunny  smiles, 
And  sunnier  love,  though  but  a  child's, 

Beneath  an  old  Beech  Tree. 

One  morn  I  sought  the  cooling  shade 
With  heart  as  light  and  free 

As  snowy  whitecap  ever  played 
Upon  the  bounding  sea; 

But  she,  the  fairy  child,  was  gone, — 

The  flower  that  grew  for  me  alone — 
Beneath  the  old  Beech  Tree. 

The  brooks  still  ran  the  hills  among 

And  babbled  on  in  glee; 
The  birds  still  mated,  loved  and  sung 
68 


In  tuneful  melody : 
But  all  the  soul  of  song  was  lost; 
My  flower  had  withered  with  the  frost 

Beneath  the  old  Beech  Tree. 

The  years  ran  on  in  golden  sands 

For  lovers  rapidly; 
The  flowers  waved  their  magic  wands 

And  smiled  still  joyously: 
But  love's  enchanting  power  was  gone 
For  me  whom  Death  had  left  alone 

Beneath  the  old  Beech  Tree. 

****** 

The  moonlight  sifting  through  the  leaves 

Fell  soft  and  silvery, 
As  threads  that  sly  Arachne  weaves 

With  artful  modesty; 
It  fell  and  wove  a  mystic  veil 
About  her  face;  my  cheek  grew  pale 

Beneath  the  Chestnut  Tree. 

A  breathless  moment,  all  was  still; 

A  deep  solemnity 
Hung  over  earth, — and  then  a  thrill 

Of  love  and  mystery — 
An  odor  of  a  rare  perfume, 
The  sweetest  flower  that  e'er  did  bloom 

Beneath  the  Chestnut  Tree! 

The  brooks  now  run  the  hills  among 

And  babble  on  in  glee; 
For  love  brought  back  the  soul  of  song 

Beneath  the  Chestnut  Tree; — 
Brought  back,  while  moonlit  breezes  blew 
The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  grew, 

Alone,  alone  for  me. 
69 


JACK  AND  JILL 

We  played  beside  the  little  rill 

That  flows  to  larger  river; 
We  heard  the  mating  mock-birds  trill, 
The  robins  piped  upon  the  hill, 

And  Cupid  strung  his  little  bow  and  filled  his 
little  quiver: 
Then  she,  we  played,  was  little  Jill, 

And  I  was  Jack,  her  lover. 

But  floating  down  the  little  stream 

Toward  the  larger  river, 
The  rippling  of  the  waves  did  seem 
The  fading  music  of  a  dream, 

For  Cupid  broke  his  silver  bow  and  lost  his 
golden  quiver; 
And  Jill  forgot  the  hour  supreme 

When  I  was  Jack,  her  lover. 


70 


NATURA 

0  beauteous  maid,  my  heart  is  thine; 
I  lay  its  dearest  offering  at  thy  feet; 

1  burn  its  sweetest  incense  on  thy  shrine, 
For  thou,  sweet  maid,  art  all  divine, 

For  worship  thou  art  meet. 

Let  those  who  never  felt  the  glow 

That  summer  suns  have  spread  o'er  flowery 
meads, 
Whose  hearts  have  never  thrilled  at  arch-ed 

bow, 
Or  when  the  cascade's  crystal  flow 
Is  sparkling  into  beads, 

Deny  thy  charms.     To  me  thy  smile 

Is  sweeter  boon  than  untried  worlds  can 
yield; 
No  creed  of  priests  can  ever  lure  me  while 
Thy  wondrous  love  so  free  from  guile, 
Is  every  where  revealed. 

The  severing  clouds  at  early  dawn 
Blush  red  as  roses  bursting  into  bloom 

At  thy  deft  touch;  and  on  the  dewy  lawn 

The  drapery  of  night  withdrawn 
I  find  no  hint  of  gloom. 

And  when  at  noon  the  streets  I  quit 

For  dappled  shade  or  thickest  leafy  bower, 
Then,  blushing,  thou  dost  come  with  me  to 

sit 
And  read  the  poems  thou  hast  writ 
In  leaf  and  tint  of  flower. 
71 


At  evening  walking  arm  in  arm 

With  thee  through  glen  or  by  the  river's 
brink, 
I  watch  the  shades  descend  o'er  distant  farm 
And  still  the  world  has  lost  no  charm 

That  soul  can  wish  or  think. 

The  loom  of  fancy  never  wove 

Beneath  the  starlit  skies  of  southern  seas 
A  dream  of  beauty  thy  enchanting  love 
On  hill  or  stream  or  sheltered  cove, 

Or  on  the  open  leas 

Has  not  supplied;  and  thou,  sweet  maid, 
Dost  never  weary,  but  from  day  to  day, 

And  season  unto  season,  every  shade 

In  sky  or  cloud  is  new  inlaid 
With  colors  soft  or  gay. 

Yon  mountain  late  enrobed  in  snow 

Thou  clothest  now  in  dress  of  shimmering 
green ; 

Ere  long  another  garb  wilt  thou  bestow 

Upon  her,  lest  thy  lover  grow 
Aweary  of  the  scene. 

And  when  the  sheen  of  summer  sky 

Shall  fade  into  October's  sombre  gray, 
And  Autumn's  gayest  flowers  a-withered  lie, 
For  me  yon  mountain  thou  wilt  tie 
Into  a  rare  bouquet. 


72 


HER  EYES 

I  dare  not  look  again ! 

In  those  vast  depths  of  infinite  blue 
There  are  visions  of  joy  and  love  as  true 
As  ever  haunted  a  poet's  ken. 
This  sordid  earth's  my  lot; 
Those  dreams  must  be  forgot — 
I  dare  not  look  again. 

I  dare  not  look  again ! 

Those  dreams  must  be  forgot 

The  infinite  blue,  with  its  love  so  true 
And  the  visions  I  dare  not  pen. 

This  sordid  earth's  my  lot. 
Heavens !  might  I  but  look  again ! 


73 


THE  ROSE  OF  LOVE 

The  flowers  closed  their  autumn  bloom 

Awhile  the  bleak  winds  blew, 
And  meekly  bowing  to  their  doom 
They  lay  in  shroud  of  frozen  gloom 

The  whole  long  winter  through. 

There's  ever  been  the  same  sad  tale 

To  tell  of  Nature's  loves; 
Her  artful  methods  never  fail 
To  win  the  hearts  they  once  assail, 

Though  she  inconstant  proves. 

Last  spring  I  heard  the  whisperings  low 

To  modest  Daffodil 
That  won  her  smile  ere  yet  the  snow 
Had  melted  and  begun  its  flow 

Adown  the  little  rill. 

And  soon  her  soft  caresses  proved 

Too  much  for  Meadow  Rue; 
And  next  Anemone  was  moved; 
Spring  Beauty  whom  the  nymphs  had  loved 

In  shady  woods  to  woo. 

But  some  less  trustful,  still  were  slow 

To  yield  their  loves'  perfume, 
Till,  melted  by  the  summer's  glow, 
They  let  their  pent-up  passions  flow 

Through  many  colored  bloom. 

But  Nature  soon  withdrew  her  smile: 
I  saw  their  petals  pale 

74 


And  droop,  now  conscious  of  the  guile 
Their  fickle  lover  used  the  while 

She  wooed  them  in  the  vale. 

****** 

All  winter  I  had  breathed  upon 

The  clos-ed  bud  of  love; 
Its  milk-white  petals,  one  by  one 
At  last  unfolded  in  the  sun 

My  heart  had  longed  to  prove. 

And  when  it  reached  its  full  broad  blow 

It  shed  a  fragrance  sweet 
From  out  its  bosom  lilied  snow, — 
And  incense  that  the  gods  I  know 

Had  smiled  with  joy  to  greet. 

****** 

And  Nature  now  begins  again 

Her  courtship  with  the  flowers; 
She  chants  in  groves  her  minstrel  strain, 
She  smiles,  and  frowns,  and  weeps  in  rain 
Of  gentle  April  showers. 

And  while  she  tries  with  song  of  thrush 

Once  more  those  hearts  to  move, 
I've  seen  her  oft  relentless  crush, — 
My  bud  still  blooms  forever  fresh — 
It  is  the  Rose  of  Love! 


75 


MY  JEWELS 

His  little  Blue  Dress  is  hidden  away 
From  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar  world,— 

And  the  dear  little  Shoes, — more  precious  are 
they 
Than  silver  or  gold  empearled — 

Jewels  that  lure  like  the  stars  above, 

Hidden  from  all  but  the  eyes  of  love. 

I  watched  him  oft  with  a  mother's  heart 
As  he  played  with  his  dear  little  toys; 

But  now  he  is  gone,  and  I  sit  apart 

And  muse  of  those  vanished  joys; — 
Dream  of  his  eyes  and  his  beautiful  hair, 
And  thrill  with  the  love  of  a  sweet  despair. 

The  gaze  of  the  vulgar  world  today 
Would  only  my  jewels  abuse; 
And  this  is  the  reason  I  hid  them  away, — 
The  little  Blue  Dress  and  the  Shoes: 
And  I  pray  that  in  death  my  eyes  may  caress 
The  dear  little  Shoes  and  the  little  Blue  Dress. 


76 


A  RECOLLECTION 

Clouds  of  sorrow  cannot  hide 
Gleams  of  sunshine  gilding  hours 
Of  happy  memory,  sweet  as  flowers 

Ever  blooming  by  the  wayside, 
Thronged  with  thorn  and  thistle. 

Reapers  binding  sheaves  of  plenty, 

Think  the  golden  dreams  of  twenty 
Thrill  them  deepest;  and  the  whistle 

Of  some  lone  love-dreaming  bird 
In  the  meadow,  wakes  to  memory 
Notes  now  hushed,  but  sweeter  than  the 

Ear  of  mortal  ever  heard. 

'Neath  the  cliffs  near  by  the  river 
Long  cymes  of  honey-suckle  grew, 
Odorous  in  the  air;  and  the  violet,  too, 
Entangling  with  the  phlox,  and  ever 

Entessellated  beds  of  petal'd  mosaic 
Stretching  out  before  us,  rich 
As  the  drapery  of  a  dream  in  which 

The  toil  of  life  was  not  prosaic. 
Neither  can  the  hungry  ear 
Enfashion  music  softer,  sweeter, 
Drawn  from  lyre,  than  the  meter- 
Rippling  cascade  trinkling  near. 


77 


THE  MOONSHINERS 

Where  the  trailing  arbutus  filled  the  cove 
With  a  perfume  as  sweet  as  the  breath  of  love, 
And  the  mountain  ivy's  astral  bloom 
Made  radiant  light  of  the  darkest  gloom, 
A  maiden  dwelt  as  stainless  the  while 
As  the  bay  tree's  bloom  in  the  steep  defile; 
And  she  loved  a  youth  with  a  heart  as  true 
As  ever  has  beaten  for  me  or  you. 

Soon  summer  passed  and  the  autumn  came 
With  its  goldenrod  and  its  sumac  flame, 
With  its  tinge  of  frost  and  its  blood-red  blush 
That  made  every  shrub  a  burning  bush. 
Then  love  became  passion  for  maiden  and  youth; 
All  vision  had  vanished  and  life  was  now  truth ; 
And  they  heard  a  voice  in  the  flaming  tree 
Which   told   them    that   marriage   was   nature's 
decree. 

When  the  spring  beauties  came  and  winter  had 

fled 
Sue  Winn  and  Josh  Bell  were  happily  wed; 
And  the  cowslips  that  bloomed  in  the  side  of  the 

glen 
Were  fragrant  as  roses  in  the  gardens  of  men. 
Their  home  was  a  cabin,  the  mountain  above 
Was  rugged  and  rough,  and  their  fortune  was  love: 
But  a  cabin  with  love  and  vigor  and  health 
Is  better  than  sin  in  a  palace  of  wealth. 

The  seasons  passed  by  and  a  few  brief  years 
Brought  bountiful  crops  to  these  mountaineers; 
78 


And  their  children  that  played  round  the  great 

hollyhocks 
Wore  the  sunniest  curls  and  the  cleanest  of  frocks; 
And  old-fashioned  sunflowers  smiled  at  their  door 
Midst  beautiful  pinks  and  pansies  galore; 
And  the  mountain  redbirds  flashed  and  flew 
Around  the  rude  cabin  of  Josh  and  Sue. 

Ah,  little  you  know,  ye  daughters  of  Jove, 
The  sweetness  of  poverty  wedded  to  love; 
Untrammeled  by  fashion,  unsated  by  sin, 
With  the  feeling  that  life  and  the  dewdrop  are  kin. 
Ah,  little  you  know  who  dwell  among  men 
The  freedom  and  freshness  of  mountain  and  glen, 
Where  the  Diva  of  Nature  gives  her  grand  matinee 
In  the  opera  of  Love  from  a  rich  elder  spray ! 

Yet  the  earth  holds  few  spots  where  the  winds 

never  blow, 
And  summer's  not  followed  by  the  bleak  winter 

snow : 
But  the  harvest  will  fail  both  the  rich  and  the 

poor 
In  the  deep  fertile  valley,  on  the  thin  heathy  moor. 
Thus  Susan  grew  ill  and  Joshua  found 
His  corn  crop  was  short,  his  wheat  was  unsound, 
That  drouth  and  disease  had  stricken  his  home 
With  a  hand  that  poverty  couldn't  overcome. 

Ah,  little  you  care  who  dwell  high  above 
For  the  hardships  of  poverty  wedded  to  love; 
Whose  awful  temptations  you  never  can  know, 
When  the  unfeeling  winds  of  adversity  blow; 
When  the  loved  one  is  lying  all  helpless  abed, 
79 


And  children  are  crying  and  begging  for  bread. 

Yes,  little  you  dream,  ye  rich  sons  of  Jove 

Of  the  trials  of  love  in  a  rough  mountain  cove. 

Josh  Bell  battled  bravely,  and  fought  sin  and 

wrong 
And  the  mighty  temptation  with  a  heart  true  and 

strong; 
But  Susan  grew  weaker,  till  bright  bloomed  the 

rose 
That  ever  the  blanched  cheek  of  consumption 

shows. 
"I  must  save  her,"  he  cried,  "Oh,  God,  let  the 

cost 
Be  my  life;  if  she  dies,  I  am  lost,  I  am  lost!" 
And  Joshua  Bell  smote  his  breast  with  a  blow 
That  only  the  frenzy  of  a  lover  can  know. 

At  a  deep  hour  of  night  when  the  hoot  of  the  owl 
Made  the  dark  glen  as  lonesome  as  haunt  of  a  cowl, 
Josh  Bell  left  his  cabin  for  a  cave  in  the  hill, 
And  began  the  erection  of  a  small  mountain  still. 
For  weeks  here  he  labored  at  midnight  alone, 
With  a  firm  resolution  and  a  heart  like  a  stone : 
Then  his  own  golden  corn  he  had  gathered  in  sheaf, 
He  now  husked  in  darkness  and  stole  like  a  thief. 

Ah,  Joshua  Bell,  the  world  does  not  know 
The  depth  of  thy  grief,  the  weight  of  thy  woe, — 
The  conflict  of  conscience  and  love  in  thy  breast, 
The  struggle  of  duty  and  shame  unconfessed. 
Thy  act  is  a  crime  in  the  eyes  of  the  law, 
No  matter  the  motive,  it  weighs  not  a  straw; 
No  matter  the  liquid  distilled  be  as  dew 
That  drips  from  the  stem  and  chalice  of  rue. 
80 


But  the  comforts  of  life  that  lessen  the  pain 

Of  those  whom  we  love,  ease  conscience  and  brain; 

And  Josh  half  forgot  the  cave  in  the  hill, 

And  the  white  sparkling  liquor  that  flowed  from  the 

still, 
When  Sue  smiled  and  said,  "By  thy  great  sacrifice 
Of  unceasing  toil  and  love  without  price, 
I  am  better  to-day;  with  return  of  the  spring 
We  can  labor  together  where  the  brown  thrushes 

sing." 

Thus  Josh  kept  his  secret,  and  the  daffodils  came 
That  bloom  but  for  those  unworthy  of  blame; 
And  Sue  never  knew  that  the  gold  and  the  gain 
Was   purchased  with  liquor   distilled  from   their 

grain. 
But  the  sleuth-hounds  of  law  found  the  cave  in 

the  hill 
At  a  late  hour  of  night  and  raided  the  still; 
Then  surrounded  the  cabin,  and  woke  Josh  and 

Sue 
And  demanded  surrender  of  the  moonshiners,  too. 

With  Winchester  rifle  Josh  leaped  from  his  couch, 
"I'll  never  surrender,  nor  cower,  nor  crouch 
To  cowardly  villains  that  plunder  the  poor, 
In  the  guise  of  the  law;  who  crosses  my  door, 
Had  best  make  his  peace  with  the  angels  above; 
By  my  life  I'll  protect  the  darlings  I     love. " 
Like  a  lion  at  bay,  the  flash  of  his  eye, 
Told  the  brave  mountaineer  would  shield  them  or 
die. 

But  the  torch  of  the  raiders  lit  a  red  flame  that 
stung 

81 


The  stout  hearted  Josh  like  a  vile  adder's  tongue, 

Till  he  rushed  from  his  cabin  in  madness  and  swore 

He  would  save  Sue  and  children  or  sleep  never- 
more. 

But  a  flash  from  a  rifle  sent  a  ball  through  his 
brain, 

And  Joshua  Bell  never  breathed  once  again. 

And  his  loved  ones  perished  in  the  flame  and  the 
smoke 

Of  his  own  little  cabin  he  had  hewn  from  the  oak. 

When    the    morning   has    climbed    up    the    high 

eastern  hill 
And  the  sunlight  is  dancing  on  ripple  of  rill, 
The  coroner  summons  a  jury  and  feigns 
An  inquest  of  law  o'er  the  ghastly  remains. 
The  verdict  is  heard  with  whoop  and  hurrah : 
"These  moonshiners  died  at  the  hands  of  the  law; 
Let  all  men  beware,"  the  coroner  cried, 
"The  murder  of  outlaws  is  just  homicide. " 


82 


SILHOUETTES 

The  flickering  carbon  threw  a  stream 
Of  bluish  light  over  the  sleety  street. 
Men  and  women  everywhere  were  hurrying  home- 
ward, 
Shivering  for  the  comfort  that  was  gleaming 
Through  many  a  window  from  blazing  hearths 

within. 
The  freezing  rain  was  biting  like  an  adder. 
Down  the  icy  thoroughfare, 
Muffled  deep  in  furs  and  ulster, 
Madly  rushed  the  Wall-street  banker, 
Plunging  through  the  storm  and  shadow, 
Impatient  for  the  shelter  of  his  mansion. 
No  wonder  that  he  heeded  not  the  darkling  figure 
Of  a  little  homeless  waif  that  crouched 
Beneath  the  jutting  frieze  and  cornice 
Of  a  rich  Corinthian  window; — 
No  wonder,  for  the  night  was  bitter, 
And  his  mansion  yet  two  blocks  away ! 
No  wonder  either  that  the  wanderer 
Neither  saw  nor  heard  the  banker, 
Though  his  tread  was  swift  and  heavy, 
For  a  mighty  storm  was  raging ! 
Yet  above  the  noise  and  howling 
Of  the  wind  and  rain  and  tempest, 
The  outcast  heard  the  shoeless  footfall 
Of  a  little  homeless  brother, 
Lost  amid  the  blinding  shadows. 
And  soon  they  slept,  secure  and  thankful, 
Though  the  maddening  storm  grew  fiercer, — 
Slept,  but  dreamed: 
The  window  rose  a  richer  mansion 
Than  ever  sheltered  Wall-street  banker — 


A  castle  wrought  of  childish  fancy, 
More  beauteous  than  the  pen  of  romance 
Has  pictured  of  the  days  of  chivalry. 
But  their  little  dreaming  childhood, 
Painted  no  baronial  robber, 
Saw  no  haughty  plumed  tiara, 
Heard  no  clank  in  Norman  donjon. 
In  the  palace,  dream-constructed, 
Where  the  little  waifs  lay  nestled 
In  each  other's  arms  fraternal, 
Love  had  built  a  shining  altar, 
War  had  laid  aside  his  armor, 
And  the  knights  that  there  assembled 
Were  their  little  homeless  brothers, 
Gathered  from  the  ranks  of  sorrow, 
Orphans,  outcasts,  gamin,  wanderers, 


84 


WADE 

Out  of  the  infinite  depths  of  love, 

Floated  a  spirit  song, 
Plaintive  and  sad  as  coo  of  dove, 
Burdened  for  sin  and  wrong- 
So  tender  and  sweet  the  melody, 
None  heard  that  song  but  he. 

Out  of  the  days  of  childhood  joys, 

Faded  the  smile  of  light; 
The  sun  that  dazzled  other  boys, 
For  him  was  never  bright : 
The  birds  sang  sweet  on  every  tree- 
All  heard  their  songs  but  he. 

Out  of  the  realms  of  infinite  light, 

A  song  of  infinite  glee; 
The  faded  smile  of  joy  grew  bright, 
"Mother  is  waiting  for  thee." 
So  tender  and  sweet  the  melody, 
None  heard  that  song  but  he. 


85 


A  SONG 

In  the  mountains  of  Kentucky, 

Where  the  ivy's  astral  bloom 
And  the  laurel's  waxen  petals 

Shed  a  rich  and  rare  perfume; 
Where  the  purple  rhododendron 

And  the  wild  forget-me-not 
Bloom  in  amorous  profusion 

Round  a  little  mossy  grot. 
It  was  there  I  left  Rowena, 

She  is  waiting  now  for  me, 
While  I  linger  here  impatient, 

For  my  love  I  long  to  see. 
Oh,  but  soon  I  know  I'll  see  her, 

And  never  more  we'll  part — 
In  the  mountains  of  Kentucky, 

Lives  my  own,  my  true  sweetheart. 

Refrain 

She's  a  fairy,  I'll  admit,  a  little  airy; 

But  her  eyes  are  like  the  blue  Aegean  sea: 
And  her  auburn  hair,  it  would  drive  you  to 
despair, 

For  Rowena 's  heart  is  true  to  none  but  me. 

In  the  mountains  of  Kentucky, 

Though  the  grass  may  not  be  blue, 
Yet  the  streams  are  swift  and  sparkling, 

And  Rowena's  heart  is  true: 
And  I  love  the  lofty  mountains, 

And  the  deep  and  darkling  coves, 
Where  the  redbirds  gloom  and  glimmer, 

And  Rowena  lives  and  loves. 


'Tis  the  home,  they  say,  of  feudist, 

Where  the  hand  of  man  is  red; 
But  I  know  a  hundred  places, 

Where  blood's  as  wanton  shed: 
Yet  no  spot  in  all  creation 

Has  a  sky  of  such  a  hue — 
In  the  mountains  of  Kentucky 

Lives  my  sweetheart  pure  and  true. 

Refrain 

In  the  Blue-grass  of  Kentucky 

Now  Rowena  waits  for  me, 
With  a  brood  of  little  fairies 

That  my  heart  so  longs  to  see; 
For  their  eyes  are  bright  and  sparkling 

As  the  drops  of  diamond  dew — 
In  the  Blue-grass  of  Kentucky, 

Live  my  sweethearts  pure  and  true : 
Yes,  I  love  the  lofty  mountains, 

And  the  deep  and  darkling  cove, 
Where  the  redbirds  gloom  and  glimmer, 

And  the  sky  is  bright  above; 
But  one  spot  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  all  the  world  apart, 
In  the  Blue-grass  of  Kentucky, 

Lives  my  own,  my  true  sweetheart. 

Refrain 


87 


THE  BLOOM  OF  LOVE! 

(Double  Acrostic) 

Romance  by  the  little  stream, 

Where  the  wild-rose  blooms  so  fair; 
Oh,  who  would  mar  that  happy  dream 

I  see  enacted  there? 
Beauteous  orioles  are  they — 

Little  timid,  tongueless  birds — 
Each  listening  to  the  voiceless  lay, 

Love  strives  to  put  in  words. 
Roses  drop  their  petals  round; 

In  the  air  a  sweet  perfume; 
Till  time  no  longer  baffles  sound — 

Eternal  love  hath  burst  its  bloom! 


88 


MY  MUSE 

Oh !  couldst  thou  know  her  faithful  art ! 

When  troubled  dreams  disturb  the  brain, 

Though  rattling  sleet  be  on  the  pane, 
Beneath  the  window  of  my  heart, 

I  hear  her  cheering  strain — 
My  Muse  who  never  will  depart 

For  life's  cold  wintry  rain. 


89 


A  HANK  OF  HOMESPUN 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  SKINNY 

Have  you  never  heard  the  story  of  the  good  old 

country  school 
With   its   rude   split-bottomed   benches   and   its 

ancient  dunce's  stool? 
Where  Webster's  Blue-back  Speller  was  the  only 

standard  text, 
And  supplied  the  place  of  grammar  that  our  late 

forefathers  vexed; 
Where  they  never  heard  of  Latin  or  the  Greek 

subjunctive  mode, 
But  sang  their  mult 'plication  like  a  patriotic  ode? 

The  Master,  he  was  skinny,  with  a  lean  and  hungry 

look, 
And  a  countenance  as  placid  as  a  frozen  winter 

brook; 
His  brow  was  broad  and  Grecian,  and  his  eye  was 

snell  and  keen, 
And  his  head  was  stuffed  with  knowledge  of  a 

dozen  books,  I  ween; 
And  they  say  his  nose  was  Roman  as  the  bill  of 

any  hawk, 
And  his  boys  were  all  perfection,  for  they  had  to 

walk  the  chalk. 

And  yet  I've  often  wondered  if  they  really  always 

walked, 
And  sat  upright  like  statues,  and  never  laughed  or 

talked, 
For  I've  often  heard  my  father  say  the  model  of 

the  school 
Got  licked  at  least  three  times  a  day  as  a  pretty 

general  rule, 

93 


And  lament  the  good  old  method,  as  a  lost,  for- 
gotten art, 

Of  imparting  knowledge  in  a  way  that  made  a 
fellow  smart. 

I  wish  we  had  the  secret  now  of  making  boys  walk 

Instead  of  always  watching  for  a  chance  to  throw 
some  chalk ; 

But  the  art,  I  think,  was  buried  with  the  Blue- 
back  Spelling  Book, 

And  the  piercing  eye  of  Skinny,  that  no  mortal 
boy  could  brook; 

'Twas  buried  with  the  benches  and  the  ancient 
dunce's  stool 

And  the  grease-glazed  paper  windows  of  the  good 
old  country  school. 

It  may  be  through  psychology  and  molly-coddle 

stuff, 
We  often  talk  in  institutes,  we've  lost  the  power 

to  bluff; 
Perhaps  'twas  Pestalozzi,  Froebel  and  John  Her- 

bart 
Who  robbed  the  wand  of  Skinny  of  its  pedagogic 

art; 
We'll  jiot  discuss  philosophy,  but  we  know  about 

the  chalk, 
That  no  theoretic  dream  of  man  can  make  a  boy 

walk. 


94 


ONE-ARMED  JOE 

Ricollect  ol'  One- Armed  Joe? 

Lost  it  grindin'  cane. 

Same  blame  feller  't  used  to  go 

Round  with  Lizy  Jane 

Grindin'  sorghum  ever  fall. 

Lizy  Jane  wuz  Joe's  ol'  mare; 

Never  showed  her  at  a  fair, 

But  blame  'f  she  couldn't  beat  all 

Rinsters  to  an  an  ol'  cane  sweep 

That  ever  stepped  a  mile.     Never  fat, 

Ring-bone  an'  bob-tail  an'  all  that, 

But  law !  she  made  the  cane-mill  weep ! 

An'  us  chillern,  we'd  alius  go 

Over  where  they's  grindin'  cane 

An'  git  to  ride  oP  Lizy  Jane, 

An'  hear  the  jokes  of  One-Armed  Joe; 

An'  maybe  git  the  sorghum  skimmin's, 

Thwuzzent  alius  so  many  wimmins 

Bossin'  round,  cause  One-Armed  Joe, 

He  loved  us  chillern  bettern  them. 

(Bet  he  wears  a  diadem 

In  the  world  where  preachers  go). 

Joe  had  grit  and  feelin's,  too, 
An'  they  wuzzent  nothin'  he  couldn't  do, 
'Cept  to  do  another  harm : 
Ketch  a  possum,  kill  a  bear, 
Cuss  an'  dance,  or  lead  in  prayer; 
Jump  a  rope,  or  skin  a  cat, 
Make  a  speech  or  guess  a  riddle, 
Sing  a  song,  or  play  the  fiddle — 
95 


No,  Joe  couldn't  quite  do  that, 
Cause  One-Armed  Joe  had  lost  an  arm, 
But  that's  all  he  couldn't  do. 

One  night  dogs  treed  a  coon 

Up  a  leanin'  poplar  tree; 

Joe  could  by  the  glimmerin'  moon 

See  the  leanin'  poplar  leant: 

Jerked  his  coat  and  up  he  went; 

Ketched  the  possum,  let  him  go, 

Slipped  his  holts  and  hollered,  "Oh!" 

An'  down  into  eternity 

Limp  and  warm,  fell  poor  old  Joel 

Don't  remember  One- Armed  Joe? 
Feller  I'll  bet  the  angels  know! 


96 


WES  PERKINS 

I've  read  of  Bob  Burdett, 
And  Billin's,  Twain,  and  Bret 
And  the  whole  endurin'  set 

Of  funny  men,  I  guess; 
But  I  never  yit  have  found, 
No  matter  how  renowned, 
A  wit  that's  ever  downed 

Our  Perkins,  boys  call  Wes. 

You  sildom  ketch  him  lyin'; 

Not  much  for  speechifyin'; 

And  he  'pears  just  half-way  try  in' 

When  he  does  git  off  his  wit: 
But  dogged  if  th'aint  blame'd  few 
'LI  probe  you  through  and  through, 
As  Wes  is  sure  to  do, 

For  he  alius  makes  a  hit. 

He's  a  humble  sort  of  feller 
With  an  eye  as  soft  and  meller 
As  an  apple  golden  yeller 

In  the  mild  September  sun : 
Kinder  quare  and  unconcerned, 
Like  he  didn't  kere  a  derned, 
But  many  a  feller's  learned 

That  Wes  is  in  for  fun. 

Cheap  wits  don't  make  no  noise 
'Bout  Wes,  'cause  he  destroys 
Their  wisdom,  which  annoys 

The  humorist,  more  or  less. 
Unless  your  jokes  '11  fit 
You'd  best  reserve  your  wit, 
And  entirely  omit, 

'Fore  Perkins,  boys  call  Wes. 
97 


THE  FIRST  MESS  OF  GREENS 

You  may  boast  of  landscapes  golden 

With  the  harvest's  ripenin'  grain, 
Or  of  iVutumn  pensive  foldin' 

All  her  flowers  to  sleep  again; 
But  to  me  the  woods  a-ringin' 

With  the  notes  of  happy  birds 
When  the  April  buds  is  springin' 

Is  a  song  too  sweet  for  words : 
And  the  beautifullest,  since  you  ask  it, 

In  art  or  nature's  scenes, 
Is  Kate  with  knife  and  basket, 

A-getherin'  of  greens. 

It  pears  to  lift  the  veil  of  years 

And  opens  up  to  view, 
A  scene  that  brings  me  soothin'  tears 

As  sweet  as  tender  dew 
To  grass  that  suns  have  withered  dry : 

I  can  see  her  jist  as  plain, 
Though  Father  Time  has  dimmed  my  eye, 

And  ricollect  the  pain, 
I  suffered  while  she  paused  a-thinkin' 

What  such  an  answer  means; 
And  the  "Stay  and  help  us,  John,"  a-winkin' 

"Eat  our  first  mess  of  greens." 

I've  heard  my  neighbor  Johnson  say 

His  choice  was  chicken  pie; 
And  Perkins  lows  he  likes  to  stay 

His  stomach  with  a  fry : 
And  Jones,  he  says,  says  he,  "I  think 

Good  old  Kentucky  rye 
98 


Suits  me  the  best;  give  me  a  drink, 

Whenever  I  am  dry." 
But  I  have  never  tasted  meat,  ' 

Nor  cabbage,  corn  nor  beans, 
Nor  fluid  food  one  half  as  sweet 

As  that  first  mess  of  greens. 

It's  not  the  pictur  near  as  much 

As  the  thoughts  that  gethers  round, 
That  always  gives  the  paintin'  such 

Distinction  and  renown. 
There's  nothin'  in  a  grassy  knoll 

So  beautiful  to  see, 
And  yit  I  think  within  my  soul 

It  beats  a  flowery  lea. 
And  oh,  I  git  Munkasket, 

If  I  only  had  the  means, 
To  paint  me  Kate  with  basket 

A-getherin'  of  greens. 


99 


WES  BANKS 

Wes  Bunks,  you  know,  he  teaches  school, 
Has  teached  for  nigh  on  forty  year, 
And  I  jist  want  to  say  right  here, 
That  though  he  may  not  fit  your  rule, 
Wes  Banks,  by  jings,  he  ain't  no  fool. 
And  if  you  bet  your  dough  'gin  Wes, 
You'll  want  your  money  back,  I  guess. 

Wes  Banks,  he  never  wears  a  tie — 

Them  things,  you  know,  some  call  cravats, 
Nor  collar  neither,  and  jist  that's 

The  very  tarnal  reason  why 

I  bet  on  Wes,  and  that's  no  lie: 
No  man  can  lead  Wes  by  the  nose 
If  he  don't  wear  the  latest  clothes. 

Wes  Banks,  you  know,  I'm  speakin'  uv : 
He  lives  way  out  on  old  Line  Fork, 
As  good  a  place  as  in  New  York; 
Out  where  the  birds  sing  lays  of  love, 
The  wren,  the  thrush,  the  turtle  dove — 
Sometimes,  it  seems,  because  of  Wes, 
Who  loves  their  music,  more  or  less. 

Wes  claims  that  now  for  forty  year 

He  has  prescribed  strong  peachtree  tea 
For  cusses,  which  he  says  that  he 
Could  not  intrest  except  by  fear: 
Wes  makes  this  claim  while  standing  here 
Before  his  boys  now  teaching  school, 
Who  can't  remember  such  a  rule. 

Now  Wes,  he's  awful  in  his  speech : 

He  says  I  "seed  "and  "done  "and  "haint," 
100 


And  lots  of  things  that's  wrong  arid  quaint; 
But  many's  them  who  pray  and  preach 
And  go  to  school  and  learn  to  teach 
And  wear  a  darned  sight  better  clothes, 
Still  never  learn  what  Wesly  knows. 

Well,  Wes  ain't  much  at  institutes; 

Don't  like  to  make  a  public  talk, 

And  demonstrate  with  board  and  chalk. 
No,  he  ain't  much  on  sich  disputes; 
But  Wes  at  school  gits  down  and  roots : 

Up  here  Wes  Banks  is  jist  a  wag, 

With  striped  candy  in  a  bag. 

Old  Wes  is  poor  as  money  goes, 

But  rich  in  love  and  charity; 

His  heart  goes  out  in  sympathy 
To  barefoot  boy  with  bleeding  toes, 
And  girls  in  torn  and  tattered  clothes; 

And  with  his  heart  goes  Wes's  coin, 

To  heal  the  wound  and  gird  the  loin. 

And  this  is  why  tonight  I  rise 
To  speak  how  Wesly  Bank's  life 
Through  forty  years  of  schoolroom  strife 
By  living  truth  has  conquered  lies, 
And  made  his  students  good  and  wise : 
You  can't  size  Wes  by  looks  or  speech, 
No  more  than  some  by  what  they  preach. 


101 


PHILOSOPHY  AT  A  BANQUET 

Old  Socrates  who  thought  he  knew 
A  philosophic  thing  or  two, 
Believed  that  man  was  made  to  walk 
Or  lounge  about  the  streets  and  talk 
Of  life  and  death  and  virtues  true, 
And  what  a  fellow  ought  to  do; 
While  poor  Xantippe,  so  I'm  told, 
Remained  at  home  to  drudge  and  scold. 

But  Epicurus  seemed  to  think 

That  man  was  made  to  eat  and  drink, 

A  doctrine  quite  as  orthodox, 

I  sometimes  think,  as  old  man  Soc's; 

For  what  philosophy  's  complete 

That  can  not  take  an  hour  to  eat? 

I  like  old  Socry,  to  be  sure, 

But  here  I'm  just  an  Epicure. 


102 


ANENT  HALLEY'S  COMET 

Oh,  how  sick  of  Halley 's  comet ! 
Almost  makes  me  want  to  vomit. 
Can't  pick  up  a  magazine, 
Halley 's  comet  isn't  seen. 
When  the  weary  day  is  done, 
Still  no  peace  unless  you  shun 
Every  living  soul  you  meet 
Talking  comet  on  the  street. 
Should  you  occupy  the  pews, 
See  the  Hipp  or  read  the  news, 
Fall  asleep  and  chance  to  dream, 
Halley's  comet  still  the  theme. 
Dust  to-day  got  in  my  eye  — 
Halley's  comet  passing  by. 
Both  the  sense  of  sound  and  sight, 
Suffering  from  this  comet's  blight. 
When  the  days  were  hot  and  dry, 
Halley's  comet  passing  by. 
All  through  April  frost  and  rain, 
Halley's  comet  raising  Cain. 
Who  so  seeks  for  faith  or  knowledge 
Goes  to  church  or  enters  college, 
Hears  naught  else  but  this  discussed,- 
Shooting  stars  and  comet  dust. 
Taft  and  Teddy  'swell  be  dead, 
Like  Old  England's  monarch  Ed, — 
Just  as  well  as  be  forgot 
Midst  this  meteoric  rot. 
Automobile  passes  by, 
Like  a  comet  in  the  sky, 
Leaving  in  its  awful  trail, 
Wreaths  of  smoke  just  like  a  tail; 
See  a  fellow  sniff  the  air, 
103 


Stop,  turn  pale,  and  trembling,  swear: 
"  Wonder  now  has  science  lied? 
That  gas  smells  like  cyanide. " 
Learned,  ign'rant,  rich  and  poor, 
All  are  full  of  comet  lore. 
Life  had  charms  that  once  were  sweet; 
Earth,  hast  now  no  safe  retreat? 
If  this  talk  will  not  abate, 
Lord,  I  pray  this  be  our  fate; 
May  this  globe  dissolve  or  fail, 
Passing  through  the  comet's  tail! 


104 


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